


Hide and Seek

by RatTale



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark subject matter, Disturbing, Friendship, Gen, Holmes is Kind, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, If easily upset I suggest not to read, Watson is Scared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: Holmes comes back from a long trip eager to get home and catch up with his friend and even his landlady. But when he arrives Mrs. Hudson is upset and Watson is acting strangely, and Holmes isn't sure if he wants to find out what happened.





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE BE WARNED; dark subject matter ahead. It's more suggested, but it's still there. 
> 
> (See below NOTES for full warning. But this will SPOIL the story)
> 
> I was in a dark place when I wrote this, so it's not a nice story. But it does have a happy ending of sorts. Some of the ideas I came up with I rather liked, but I'm leaving it up to you guys to decide whether this is good or not.
> 
> Thank for reading, and please let me know what you thought!

 

The sight of London and its bustling streets was a welcome sight for Holmes. The streets were packed in the summer morning, the clear blue sky a welcome change to the dreadful weather from the previous few days, if the muddy streets were anything to go by.

 

There was a clear, crisp feeling in the air, and despite the weariness from travel and little sleep, it made him yearn for the theatre. But for now the anticipation of seeing Watson and Mrs. Hudson was enough. It was 10 o’ clock on a Sunday morning, which meant Watson would be at home, with a good book and a cup of tea seated in front of the hearth. As was his custom.

 

That image was quite comforting, knowing that someone was waiting for him at home. This would not have been the case in those early days, before they'd become such sure friends. But he'd sorely missed his friend's presence, and he was certain Watson would have loved the case.

 

_The Adventure of the Howling Bookcase._

 

Yes, he thought, certainly one for the books.

 

He hopped off before the hansom came to a complete stop, and he hastily paid the driver, picked up his luggage and finally stepped into his home.

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called in the foyer. A cup of tea would be just the thing now. He waited half a moment, hoping she would materialize. She didn't and he made for the steps, thinking he might find her up stairs, possibly cleaning. He'd only made it to step six when she appeared at the top of the landing.

 

“Thank the Lord you're here!”

 

His step faltered. She was exhausted, there were bags under her eyes and a tight worry etched into her expression. Her hair wasn't properly done, her dress wrinkled where a worried hand had gripped it convulsively. All good humour fled.

 

“What's happened?”

 

She took the few steps down towards him, her hand gripping the railing enough to turn her knuckles white, “Mr. Holmes, he hasn't eaten in three days! He won't speak! He just stays in that room day-in and day-out!”

 

“Watson?”

 

“Of course him!” she said, suddenly angry, “Who else?” she grabbed her dressed, squishing the fabric into her trembling hand, “Maybe you can talk some sense into him, I've tried everything!”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, voice tight with impatience, “Please calm yourself.”

 

She took one breath and calmed herself down, but the trembling wouldn't abate entirely, the worry still as fierce as it was before.

 

“There now,” it took a good dose of patience to keep himself from running up the stairs, to find Watson and see him for himself. But running in without the facts would be of no help to anyone, no matter how desperately he needed to see for himself what was wrong with Watson. “Now please tell me, from the beginning, what happened.”

 

With a sharp motion she brushed her dress down, then wrapped both hands tightly in front of her, clearly hoping to stop her hands from trembling.

 

“Three days ago he went out to do his rounds.” she paused, “It was eight in the morning, he had to leave early to meet a patient before she left for the country.”

 

Holmes nodded a long, encouraging her as best he could.  
  
“He would have been gone all day, and gave me good indication he should only return well into the evening. With this in mind, I started a bit of Spring cleaning, because we both know how some of us can leave the sitting room in a right state -”

 

“Yes, yes Mrs. Hudson, and I am indebted to you, but do get on with it!”

 

Her eyes narrowed and for a moment he was certain the distressed Mrs. Hudson would go off on a tangent. She refrained, thankfully.

 

“I'd just finished scrubbing down the fire-place, and stood to call the boy to help me pull the carpet back, when I turned around – and there he was; stood in the doorway of the sitting room. He looked so lost, Mr. Holmes. As if he'd wandered in by mistake.”

“What time was this?”

 

“Two in the afternoon.” she swallowed tightly, “I called to him, and he replied as if in a haze. 'Mrs. Hudson,' was all he'd said, but I swore I'd never heard his voice so hoarse. So I'd asked; 'Would you like something to eat, doctor?' he'd winced Mr Holmes! Winced, as if the very thought had struck him! He'd shook his head and asked for some lemonade instead. And that's all he's asked for in the last three days!”

 

Her voice had risen by the end of her story, and Holmes in lieu of anything else to do, touched her by the arm to calm her down. Somehow it worked and after one or two breaths she was back to herself.

 

“There's something you are not telling me.”

 

She sniffed, and nodded, “Inspector Lestrade came to see him yesterday. The doctor met him in the sitting room.” Her nose turned upwards, “I don't make it habit of listening to other people's conversations, but I was worried, you understand.”

 

“What did you hear?” he pressed.

 

Reassured that Holmes did not judge her unscrupulous actions, she continued.“The Inspector did most of the talking. Specifically he spoke of a lady, and reassured the Doctor that she had been moved somewhere safe. What was curious was the last part of the conversation.”

 

“And what was that?” he pressed, barely keeping the impatience out of his voice.

 

“He said to the doctor, 'You cannot tell anyone, Watson. We have to keep this quiet.' And the doctor said, the first words he'd spoken since Sunday; 'I wouldn't know where to begin, Lestrade.' After this the Inspector left, and the doctor went back to his room, where he's been since.”

 

Mrs. Hudson fell silent, and Holmes could feel the cogs in his head begin to turn. All of this was quite distressing, he'd hoped to come home to a warm welcome and now he had a new mystery on his hands. What in the world had happened that could push a man with Watson's healthy appetite to stop eating for three days? To stay in his room? And drink only lemonade? The arrival of the Inspector made the mystery a little easier to solve, if he could convince the man to share a story he'd told Watson he couldn't breathe a word of.

 

 _I wouldn't know where to begin_.

 

Until he saw Watson with his own eyes, he wouldn't know where to begin either.

 

They were still standing on the steps. Holmes' bag was starting to feel heavy, and down in the foyer the rest of his luggage still stood. Unpack his bags and then sink his teeth into the mystery. But first, some tea.

 

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” he said and squeezed her arm in reassuring manner, “I shall make work of it. But please bring me some tea in the mean time. I shall be in the sitting room.”

 

There was something to be said about the steel of a landlady as old as Mrs. Hudson. Her nod was firm, and despite the shaking in her hands, she answered in a voice which bore no doubt or worry.

 

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I shall have the boy bring up your luggage.” she moved around him, but paused, “Thank you.”

 

He watched her head down the steps into the kitchen, the business of tea being dealt with in her usual proficiency. In the sitting room he found the place far cleaner and certainly more... sparkly than he'd left it. All books were in order, all pages he'd left lying around in neat piles (he would sort that mess out later. The fire-place scrubbed to perfection, and everything oiled and cleaned.

 

He looked down, even the carpet had been given a good cleaning. But what was missing at ten in the morning on Sunday, was Watson, sitting in his chair smoking a pipe and reading one of his Adventures.

 

Placing the Gladstone on a nearby chair, he turned his attention to Watson's closed door. There was nothing for it. In three sharp strides he stood before it, and quickly wrapped out a sharp knock. “Watson!” he called, “It's me old boy! Open up!”

 

No reply. He tried the handle and the door opened. “Watson?”

 

It was the smell that hit him first. A sharp scent of lemon citrus mixed with Watson's brand of cigarettes. The place was in a thick haze of smoke, and Holmes quickly strode in to rip open a window. “Good heavens man!” he scolded, coughing and waving his hand, “I never meant for you to pick up my habits!”

 

Sounds from the street below wafted in through the window. Satisfied with the wash of fresh air, he turned to the bed where Watson lay curled up. He was on his side, arms wrapped around his chest, facing the wall, dressed in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and breathing deeply.

 

He was sleeping. Still sleeping, which was a little surprising with the ruckus Holmes had just made. He moved a little closer and peered over his shoulder, but sure enough his eyes were closed and the light snoring suggested a pretty deep sleep. He glanced at the desk where an ashtray was filled to the brim with stubs, the cigarette packets lay in the dustbin, no less than fifteen from what he could see.

 

Watson had smoked until he'd run out.

 

Holmes stood back. From what he could tell from his complexion and pallor, Mrs. Hudson's suspicion was correct, not only was Watson no eating, but the man hadn't slept in a few days. But he was sleeping now. No matter how badly he needed answers, Watson needed rest first. Picking up a discarded wool blanket, Holmes draped it over his friend. He watched him for another moment, then quietly crept out of the room where tea was waiting.

 

Holmes spent the hours smoking a pipe, reading the paper, poking at his clean chemistry table and watching the clock, waiting for Watson to emerge. After three hours he buckled and finally went to get some sleep himself. The case and trip had been both tiring.

 

He collapsed on the bed at two in the afternoon, intent on taking a short nap. The cool sheets, familiar smell and exhausted muscles soon lulled him to a deep sleep.

 

When he woke next it was through a haze of struggle, sleeping kept pulling him back into its arms.

 

“Mr Holmes!”

 _Mrs. Hudson._ His brain supplied. _She sounds quite distressed_. Another series of knocks on his bedroom door pushed him just awake enough to move. His room was dark. How long had he slept for? He ripped open the door, and there stood Mrs. Hudson as worried as she'd been that morning.

 

“He's gone!”

 

“What?” he snapped, brain still trying to catch up with his body.

 

“The doctor!” she cried, “I came in to see if he needed more to drink, because he'd been very quiet -”

 

“Did you see him leave?” At the mention of Watson, his brain had pulled ahead at full steam, and he'd spun to grab his jacket and to pull on his shoes.

 

“No!” she said, her hands gripped tightly in front of her chest, “The last I saw of him was just after you'd gone to bed, he came out for use of the toilet, and went back into his room without another word.”

 

He finished tying his shoes then grabbed a comb and quickly slicked back his hair in four quick strokes. “Has he gone out since Thursday?”

 

“He hasn't. This would be the first time.”

 

 _He's avoiding you_ , his mind supplied just as he stepped out to grab only his cane and hat. It was a warm evening, “I shall find him, if he's had as little to eat as you're suggesting then he shouldn't be out at all.”

 

She didn't answer, only quietly followed him as he started for the stairs. At the bottom of the steps Holmes paused, Watson had taken his winter coat. The fine piece of tailoring had been made to keep out snow storms and lined with thick fleece. It was as warm as it was thick.

 

“Mr Holmes?”

 

He turned, surprised to see Mrs Hudson's staring at him with a worried expression. He smiled. “Worry not Mrs. Hudson, I shall bring him home safe.”

 

She nodded but would not smile in turn, “I shall have a meal ready for when you return.”

 

“That would be most helpful.” He stepped out into the warm summer evening. If Watson was cold he might be running a fever. He hadn't seemed ill this morning, and since the day he'd met him he hadn't seen his friend sick once. The man seemed to be immune to any sort of sickness. But with his immune system in such a poor state, it was possible Watson had in fact become ill.

 

Whatever had happened was enough to chase his friend into the dark London streets to avoid him. He still had no idea what had happened, but he felt certain if he knew he could somehow fix his friend, help him overcome this. If he could only find him.

 

A small boy stood in the mouth of an alley, watching him closely.

 

“Billy!” he called. The lad's head snapped up and an instant grin pulled over dirty little face.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” he said as he came closer, “We haven't seen ya around, sir?”

 

“I've been in the country,” he said and quickly continued before the boy could comment, “Did you see Watson leave?”

 

“Yessir!” he said, “He looked a little, wassa word pokey? Wearin' a big coat, looked sick.”

 

“Peaky,” he said, “Did you see which way he went?”

 

“Yeah, gotta hansom and went inna direction of the Golden Lion,” he pointed down the road, “Didn't see where he gone after that.”

 

“Very good, Billy.” he procured a silver coin, “Tell the Irregulars to find Watson, the one who does gets a Crown.”

 

“Cor!” he said, eyes wide as saucers. The he pulled off a sloppy salute, “We're on it, guv!” and he took off down the street at a blistering speed, calling to his friends who were standing close by. He watched the urchins disappear into the night, then quickly hailed a passing hansom. There were a few places the Irregulars would now be able to check, the first being Watson's club. He already doubted the man was there, but right now his friend wasn't thinking straight.

 

Sure enough the club proved fruitless, as did his regular pub, as did his not so regular pub, as did Simpson's and the bathhouses. By then he could feel a sort of cold panic begin to settle over him. Watson might have left the city, in his sickly state he might have been robbed, stabbed, attacked. Anything could have happened to him!

 

Anger at the situation flared up his anger at the man who had put a clamp on Watson's mouth. How dare Lestrade tell him he couldn't speak of it! No matter what it was, if something affected a man to this extent, he should have a right to speak of it! He jammed his cane into the roof of the Hansom, “New course! He shouted, take me to Scotland Yard!”

 

He was tired of being left in the dark, he would find out one way or the other what the hell had happened to Watson.

 

By the time he stormed through the doors of the Yard, panic had been consumed by rage. “Where is Inspector Lestrade?” he snapped, not breaking his stride.

 

The young constable stood instantly, eyes wide at the enraged consultant, “He, um he's in his... um office, but he asked not to be distur-”

 

Holmes stormed down the corridor, ignoring the protests from the constable. Without knocking he ripped open the door and walked in, slamming it shut behind him. Lestrade jumped at the intrusion, spilling ink across his papers and shirt. “Holmes!” he yelled, face turning red, “What the devil are you -”

 

“What happened to Watson?”

 

He might as well have told the man his wife had been killed. The red vanished from his face, replaced by white, his eyes went wide and he looked about ready to vomit. But as quickly as it came the panicked expression was pulled away, replaced by one of indifference. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

The rage ripped through him like a current, and before he could think, his fist slammed into the table, sending the upturned ink bottle to the floor, “Damn it Lestrade!” he snapped, “Watson is missing! He is ill! And I can't help him if I don't know what's going on!”

 

Lestrade frowned. “When did he go missing?”

 

“Sometime today, I don't know when!” he stood back, breath coming out fast. “But the longer I struggle to find him, the worse of a state I will find him in!” another pulse of rage shot him forward again, and he pressed both hands on the desk and leaned closer to the nervous detective, “He will not speak to me! He is going to extremes to avoid me! Because you told him he cannot tell anyone about it!”

 

“How could you possibly know -”

 

“You should never underestimate a worried landlady,” he stood, and finally collapsed into a chair, “Especially when it concerns her favourite.”

 

The silence which followed was thick and heavy, both of them caught up in their own thoughts and worries. Lestrade shifted, and when Holmes looked at him he'd never seen a man more lost than in that moment, “I honestly don't know what to tell you, Holmes.”

 

“Anything you can give will do.”  
  
  
“I can't....”  
  
  
A flash of rage cut through him, “Lestrade...”

 

The detective raised a hand to appease Holmes, “I'm not being difficult, Holmes.” he said, voice now sharp and angry, more like his usual expressive voice, “I don't know everything that happened in there, I came in at the end, and Dr. Watson has been tight lipped about it. My superiors made it clear; what happened there stays in there. And if the doctor wants you to know, he'll tell you.”

 

Holmes shook his head, “No he won't. He's took honourable to break a promise to a friend.”

 

Lestrade's frown was momentary, fleeting before realisation cut a perfect expression of guilt. Holmes found some joy at that expression. For what Watson was going through, Lestrade deserved a little misery.

 

He pressed his face into his palms, “What I tell you now remains between us.” Before Holmes could answer, the Inspector stood and went to the door, he opened it and had a short discussion with someone outside. He closed the door, and Holmes watched him lock it, before heading to a small cabinet at the back of the room.

 

Lestrade poured two glasses of whiskey, and offered one to Holmes. After such a long night, the cheap whiskey smelled heavenly and Holmes took a quick sip.

 

“It all has to do with a young lady your doctor went to see on Thursday.” Lestrade started, collapsing back into his chair. He took a large sip of his double, and crossed his arms on the desk, “From what I gather, he'd initially went to see another older dame just on the other side of the street, who expressed concern over her neighbours activities.”

 

“So this lady, was not one of his regular patients?”

 

“No,” his eyebrows shot up and he shook his head, “Not his type of patient.” he took another gulp.

 

Holmes noted the odd reaction, but pressed on, “What sort of activities?”

 

Here Lestrade seemed out of sorts, with his gaze pinned to the swirling liquid he sat back and said; “She noted the girl came and went at strange hours. That she lived alone, worked as a nurse at a nearby hospital, and...” he cleared his throat, “she'd heard a baby screaming.”

 

“A baby?”

 

Lestrade nodded, “She was worried, you see, that the girl had had a child and was struggling to make ends meat.” his tone was bitter, cold. He downed the whiskey. “So the good doctor, as he is wont to do, went in to help the young girl.”

 

“And what did he find.”

 

Lestrade stared intently at the desktop, his hand turning the drink idly, “I don’t know exactly what he found, or what he experienced, but whatever he saw it made him call us. It made him call me specifically.”

 

His voice had turned introspective, as if he was calling them from somewhere far away. “It was one of your chaps, Rock or Rick or something that came to the station, out of breath and refusing to speak to anyone but me. ‘You’ve got to come,’ he’d said, ‘The doctor says it’s urgent, told me to come straight here as fast as I could.’ We both know your doctor well, Holmes. He doesn’t make demands, and he doesn’t waste one’s time for trivial reasons. At least he’s never wasted mine.”

 

He downed the final shot of whiskey, and placed the glass on the table, “I went along with the boy to... to the street. The doctor was standing on the porch of a small house, as pale as I’d ever seen him. When he saw me he straightened like a soldier and went inside without a word. I was surprised by the lack of greeting, you now how he is, always smiling and friendly, but there was none of that.”

 

Holmes bit down on the urge to yell at the man to get on with it. He took a hard swallow sip from his drink and waited.

 

“He led me inside, and I stood in a tiny room where a young lady, no older than 20 sat tied to a chair, clearly unconscious.”  
  
“Unconscious?”

 

Lestrade nodded, “Yip, out cold and hands tied to the chair with a sheet. Wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I trust the doctor and let him lead the way. He walked a little ways in, told me in a quiet voice that he’d been asked to check on her, that he tried to help her, that she needed help he couldn’t give. It was then I realised I smelled chloroform and freshly made pastries, which were half-eaten. He went further in, towards the kitchen, I followed again, I’ll admit a little mesmerized and rightfully worried by his odd behavior. But he didn’t go in, he just stopped next to the door and nodded for me to take a look ...”  
  
Holmes could see the hand tighten by increments around the glass, Lestrade’s eyes were unfocused, and glassy. “It was the smell that hit me first, a dark thing made up of old blood, and then I realised, Mr. Holmes I realised, that what I was looking at – “

 

There was a sharp knock on the door.

 

“What is it?” Lestrade called, voice gruff and angry.

 

The constable from before appeared in the door, his eyes flicking between his angry boss, and the consulting detective who'd yelled at him earlier. “There's a boy here, sir.”

 

“What of it, Foster?”

 

“He says he needs to speak with Mr. Holmes.”

 

Holmes sprang to his feet, hope mixed with fear blooming in his chest. “They found him,” he said and made for the door.

 

“I'll come with.”

 

Holmes stopped in the door, and spun to glare at the Inspector, but Lestrade seemed unphased by the hostility. The man grabbed his coat and hat. After this long of a night, Holmes was not in the mood to be contradicted. But Lestrade simply said, “I need to tell him it's al right to share this with you, Mr. Holmes.”

 

The ire fell away with a curt nod, Holmes headed out ready to finally find Watson and put an end to this horrible day.

 

Andy, one of the regular Irregulars, stood just outside the station, bouncing up and down with nervous energy. “Mr. Holmes!” he said with a bright grin, which quickly soured at the sight of the Inspector, “Evenin' copper,”

 

“Watch your tone, lad!”

 

The lad laughed and turned a crooked smile at Holmes, “He's at the stables nearby.”

 

“Stables?” Holmes asked, unable to keep the surprise form his voice, “What kind of stables?”

 

“Just regular old cab stables, guv.” he shrugged, “Ricky's dad works 'ere. He's a groom, but I think 'is Missus knows the doc quite well.”

 

“What on earth is he doing there?” Lestrade asked, tone incredulous and suspicious.

 

Andy shrugged and crossed his arms, shooting Lestrade a shrewd look, “I don't know rightfully know, copper. Looking at horses I reckon.”

 

Lestrade snapped at the boy, but Holmes didn't listen. So many questions spurred through his mind, but he couldn't get a handle on them right now. He didn't have enough information. Cutting Lestrade off with a quick hand he said; “Show me.”

 

With a sharp nod Andy took off, Holmes and Lestrade keeping up at a quick jog. Close by, turned out to be three blocks. By the time they reached the stables, Lestrade was out of breath and Holmes' blood was pumping.

 

“A little farther – than – nearby!” Lestrade panted.

 

Andy, thankfully kept his mouth shut and led them around the back through a gate and down a narrow path to the courtyard. The mouth of the stables stood open. There was a silhoette, tall and lanky cast in the warm glow of a lamp inside. Holmes went closer, his heart tight in his chest. The man turned and cast a quick eye over the three intruders.

 

He didn't seem affronted, only a little surprised. He was clearly the groom, probably Ricky's father, tall, broad shouldered and dour. From his build a man who did hard labour, from the glint in his eyes a man who had learned to be wary, but from his reaction to their presence, tried to be more trusting.

 

“Evenin gentleman.” he said, voice calm and heavy with a cornish accent. “Suppose you're 'ere for him?”

 

“Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Good evening to you too,” said Lestrade, “We've come to see the doctor.”  
  
  
He nodded, “The name's Hunter. I know you from the papers Inspector, but I don't know you, sir.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Mr. Hunter nodded again and turned back to the stables. Holmes came up to stand beside him.

  
The place smelled of horses, hay and manure. It was warm, the glow from three lamps casting soft light in the darkness of the barn. The place was quite big, easily able to house no less than 24 horses. One or two heads were poking out over their railings, most were sleeping.

  
“Is he in there?” Lestrade asked, peering inside as well.

 

“Doctor's in the last stable on the left.” Mr. Hunter said, voice soft.

 

“What is he doing?”

 

“Just petting them,” he flicked a glance at Lestrade and noticing the curious expression he quickly continued, “He's done good by me. Saved my wife, didn't ask for anything in return. He can pet that horse till its mane falls off, if it helps.” he frowned, “And it looks like he needs help.”

 

“Thank you,” Holmes said, and moved inside. Lestrade didn't follow, and Holmes took back every degrading thought he'd had about the man up until then.

 

The place was warm, and despite the thick scent of horse and hay, it was quite comforting. A large Clydesdale with a white blaze turned its head at Holmes, and gave a soft nicker. He brushed a hand over the soft, velvet nose and continued down the stalls. Each step echoed a sense of dread straight to his heart. Right now, whatever happened three days ago was nothing but a mystery, something he could pretend had happened in some other dimension or world. As fiercely as he wanted to solve mysteries, he knew part of him was stopping himself from putting the pieces together. Because part of him knew whatever had happened was enough to almost break Watson.

 

He didn't know if he was quite ready to face it too.

He walked past the second to last stall and came to a halt. It was a dark bay, tall and lean, but older, the white flecks on the black nose a good tell. He moved closer and the mare lifted her head, breathing into his hand, her dark eye examining him closely. Satisfied she relaxed and pulled back, Holmes petted her neck and moved around her to the other side.

 

And any sense of dread died almost instantly.

 

Watson stood pressed into her neck, as if playing a tragic game of hide and seek, where he hoped to count forever and never had to go and look. Holmes wanted to help him, he couldn't let him struggle alone anymore.

 

Placing his arms on the railing of the stable door, he leaned on it and said, “This is a beautiful horse,” he started, his footing as uncertain as he always was with small talk.

 

Watson opened his eyes, starring intently at the mane he was pressed against. Holmes noted the pale complexion, the sweat and hard breathing. His friend was perhaps not sick, but definitely ill. “She's a thoroughbred,” he in a voice hoarse from disuse. “But she never saw a racetrack, her conformation was poor.”

 

Holmes nodded, and then smiled, “It would make sense you would find the racer among cab nags.”

 

“Possible racehorse,” he replied, and for only a moment, Holmes could hear a little of Watson peaking through that utter thick coat of depression. But Watson closed his eyes again, and said; “You're here to take me back, aren't you?”

 

“Yes,” replied Holmes, “You're tired. You need rest, Watson.”

 

Watson shook his head, one hand sliding into the silky mane. “I can't sleep, Holmes.”

 

A light tingle rippled through him. There it was, an opening to push into whatever this was. To find out what had happened, and solve the mystery. He pushed down every trepidation and pressed forwards. “Why not?”

 

“You already know.” he said with such vehemence it surprised Holmes to the core.

 

Holmes frowned, “I do not.”

  
  
"Yes you do." he said, "You know everything."  
  
  
  
"I do not know this, I swear it."  
  
  


“Then I shan't tell you.”

 

“Wheyever not?”

 

“Because I _can't_ tell you!”

 

“Lestrade said you may,” Holmes implored, “He's here to tell you that you can share this with me – “

 

“Hang Lestrade!” he screamed, and the horse tensed, “I don't care if they say I can or should. I don't want you to know about this, Holmes! I can't share this with you! I won't _do_ that to you!”

 

“Watson – “ he stopped. The silence was thick with fear and the need to run. Somehow Holmes felt he was trying to calm a frightened animal. "Watson, look at me."

  
  
He shook his head, "You will know," he whispered, "The second you lay eyes on me, somehow you will know. And I can't do that to you."

 

"Whatever this is, I want to help - !"

  
“Leave it Holmes!” He yelled, looking up to pin Holmes with an expression of nothing but desperation. It would be the first time since his return that he looked Watson in the eye, the eyes were crystal clear like shining marbles, a see through lens into a haunted soul of someone who had seen something they desperately wished to forget. The expression of a man who would never be quite the same.

 

And the final piece of the puzzle slid into place.

 

They'd heard a baby scream, but there had been no baby.  
  
  
She made pies.

  
Watson refused to eat.  


_He'd winced Mr Holmes! Winced, as if the very thought had struck him!_

 

It hit him like a locomotive, his ears started to ring, his heart clenched violently his mind instantly trying to deny it. By the time the full realisation dawned he was about ready to throw up. Watson looked at him for a long moment, then his expression crumbled into disparity and remorse. He buried his face in his hands and stood motionless.

 

After the initial shock, Holmes recovered somewhat and with trembling hands opened the gate. Watson needed him, he felt he would need him for a very long time yet, but he couldn't let him suffer through this horror alone. He slid into the warmth of the stable and reaching out with a surprisingly steady hand, he touched his shoulder. “Watson.”

 

“She thought it would help her get pregnant...”

 

A pool of shock coiled through him again, and it took some effort not to pull away and run. He couldn't hear this. He dug his heels in and kept standing, he couldn't leave him.

 

“She struggled for _years_ , her husband left her because she couldn't produce a child and her family abandoned her, embarrassed by her divorce.” Watson pressed a hand over his eyes, stemming his tears. “Some insane hag in White Chapel told her it would help if she... if she...” he took a sudden hard breath, “Who would _do_ that Holmes?”

 

“I don't know.” And he didn't know, there was no answer for this. No understanding, no morale or reason. He had no answer.

 

“I wish I could understand it...”

 

It was the tone, shaking and cracking under the shock and pain that prompted him into action. Gently Holmes pulled on his shoulder, turning Watson to face him. When he finally turned, eyes curious and expression wary, Holmes simply wrapped both his arms tightly around him. Watson tensed, but then buried closer, hands digging into his back.

 

“I'm sorry.” Holmes said, surprised at the hoariness of his voice, “Dear God, Watson, I am so sorry.”

 

For a long time all Watson did was breathe, hard and steady trying to calm himself, fighting back tears. There was nothing else to do but soothe, to hold him, to keep him from falling apart completely. Holmes himself focussed on his breathing, desperately trying not to think too much about the implications. The damage this had done to his friend.

 

After some time a slightly more steady Watson shifted, turning his head to speak. “I didn't take anything...” he muttered, voice tight with unshed tears, “I swear I didn't take anything. Didn't touch a single one of them...” his voice hitched, “But I almost did, they looked so good...”

 

The ripple of relief was almost enough to make his knees buckle. His greatest fear had not been realised. “But you didn't.” he said, and swallowed stiffly, "You didn't, Watson."

 

Watson pushed a little closer.

 

He would take him home after that. When Lestrade saw them coming up the isle of the stable, he met Holmes' eyes briefly, whatever he saw in his gaze made Lestrade frown. Without a word he turned and got them a hansom. He helped Holmes get Watson safely inside. Their exchange was brief, a firm promise to drop in, a quick thank you and a soft good night.

 

Back at Baker Street he helped his friend up the stairs and into bed, where he slept restlessly through nightmares. Holmes remained next to him, with Mrs. Hudson's hourly presence a great comfort.

 

The night gave him time to think, to consider the implications of what had happened and the possible hurdles and pitfalls that was to come. His thoughts spun and weaved solutions, taking every shadow and spinning it into something constructive. He had come home to find his friend in a sorry state, and he didn't doubt Watson would be in a sorry state for a long time yet.

 

But he would not allow him to hide away completely, he would not allow him to give over to that despair. He would find ways to give him courage in those darker moments, to seek him out and guide him back to the light and laughter when everything became dreary. Solutions, he believed could banish the darkness if utilized correctly.

 

And so when the dawn peaked Holmes squeezed Watson's hand, silently reassuring him that the light would be there to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> FULL WARNING: Cannibalism, infanticide, suggesting cannibalism of a baby


End file.
